Chiara And The Rose
by EffortBroke
Summary: "Antonio sighed and slung Gilbert over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. 'My fault, we shouldn't have sent Gil. Okay Fran, he drank all the prostitute money, so I guess you're gonna have to pick up a girl the old fashioned way." Pirates! AU featuring the Pirate!Bad Touch Trio, various sharp objects, and Not-Quite-Pirate!England.
1. Breakfast Aboard The Chiara

Hey, I needed to take a break from studying, and usually I do that by writing fanfic. Unfortunately, the fic I've been working on, Empire Strikes Crack, has been tiring me out. So…I'm taking a break from _that_ and writing something new for a bit.

Also, I used Romano instead of Lovino, because Romano is an actual Italian name that people have, whereas Lovino is not. Though I don't know, maybe there are some Hetalia fans in Italy who named their kid Lovino, who knows?

* * *

Antonio gestured to the motionless form of a filthy young man, slouched in the corner of the cell, likely pruning in the dirty puddle of bilge water that sloshed around his legs. "Ay...he looks kind of…dead. Could you do something about that?"

Roderich snapped, slamming the keys onto the table outside the grimy cell and snarling, "He won't eat! What the hell am I supposed to do about that?"

Antonio tapped a thoughtful finger to his chin. "Hmmm…have you tried force feeding?"

"He keeps trying to bite me! And do you want to break his jaw?"

"Right…oh! What if we chop off a finger every time he refuses to eat?"

"I thought we were avoiding bodily harm! What kind of idiot—"

Antonio suddenly brightened and clapped his fist enthusiastically into his open palm. "No, we chop the fingers off of someone else! How long 'till we make port?"

"Eh…Francis said a couple days, roughly."

"Perfect!"

* * *

Gilbert was never particularly adept at soliciting prostitutes. In theory, it shouldn't be that difficult, but Gilbert's trademark god-like confidence and charisma always seemed to fail him when faced with the prospect of trying to obtain company. Of course, it wasn't because he was inexperienced in sex, not in the slightest! It was simply because the prostitutes found him so enormously attractive that they had no interest in payment for their services. However, Gilbert, being ever chivalrous, was always unwilling to deprive a hardworking economic contributor of her income.

And so, after a night of drinking anxiously and sulking in the corner, graciously turning down the swarms of women who always crowded around him, drawn in by his awesome, literal five meters, the first mate was discovered empty handed and drunk as a fish.

"Gil, I asked for a whore."

"Ja, ja, here I am…" Gilbert gulped down the last of his pint and giggled, puckering his lips at the captain and the quartermaster, the latter of whom noticed the empty purse at Gilbert's belt.

"Gil, _mon dieu_!" He gasped, "Did you spend all the whore money on beer?"

"Whaaaaat? No…no? No. I did not. I diiiiiid noooo—" He burped.

Francis cut in impatiently, tapping his foot and crossing his arms tensely. "Then where is the whore, Gil? We have an investment starving to death in the brig!"

"Riiight Here!" Gilbert pounded his fist on the table emphatically, gesturing toward himself with the other hand. "I looooooove wurst! Om nom nommmm…" He slumped over the bar, knocking over his glass and rocking his stool back and forth precariously.

Antonio sighed and slung Gilbert over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "My fault, we shouldn't have sent Gil. Okay Fran, he drank all the whore money, so I guess you're gonna have to pick up a girl the old fashioned way. The barmaid's been eyeing you since we walked in, so I want someone back at the ship in no more than two hours, yes?"

* * *

"Ah, _Bonjour, ma Cherie_ …" Francis sidled up to the bar, smiling his most charming, scurvy-less smile. (Francis was far too attractive not to eat his fruits and vegetables.)

"I hope I have not caught you unawares...but I feel we have this connection...how do you say...destiny?"

The barmaid raised a somewhat blasé eyebrow and offered him a monotone greeting in perfect French. Francis was caught off guard and dropped his act, surprised back into his native tongue. " _Tu parles Français?_ Where are you from? I'm from Auray!"

She replied mildly, in English, wiping down the bar in sweeping, circular motions that picked up most of the grime and spilled beer. "I'm from Bruges."

Francis tried to recover from the lukewarm reception. "Ah, well, your accent was so flawless; I thought you were from France as well!"

She paused, cocking her head, "Really? I've always been told I have an obvious accent."

"I didn't notice! I was so nervous, because you're so beautiful!"

"Well, you sure do seem nervous."

Francis finally deflated, requesting meekly, "Please, can you just sleep with me?"

"Uh, I'm fine, thanks."

" _J'taime?"_

She rubbed her forehead. "I overheard your conversation. I don't fancy having my fingers chopped off. Put a bit of a damper on business at the tavern, you know?"

"We wouldn't reeeeaaally chop your fingers off! Just threaten to."

"Yes, and pirates…such as yourself…" She gave him a scathing once over, "…didn't reeeeeaaally sack this town six years ago, destroying business and plunging this tavern into debt, the stress of which caused my father to hang himself a year later, orphaning me and my brothers and forcing me to take over this godforsaken tavern when I was only thirteen, dealing with drunk idiots like _Gil_ every night and contemplating hanging myself, also due to the stress of running a heavily debt-ridden tavern?"

"He tries his best!"

"Every time a whore tried to pick him up, he stuttered like an idiot and ran away!"

"He has issues!"

"Whatever, it's not my problem anyway."

Francis sighed dramatically and massaged his temples as early morning light filtered through the door of the empty pub. "Okay, I don't have any money on me at the moment, but I have a ridiculous amount of gold back on the _Chiara_."

"Nope, I don't have time for _that_ shit."

"What? You're going to be closed for the next twelve hours; you won't even be doing anything! Isn't this shithole of a pub in debt?"

"Hey! It's not _that_ shitty!"

"I literally stepped in a pile of shit right outside the door! It's shitty!"

"Fine, Jesus! How much am I getting paid for this shit?"

Francis smirked and adjusted the lapels of his coat with a flourish. "However much you need to bail out your shithole of a pub."

The barmaid gritted her teeth. "Alright, let's go to your shithole of a ship."

* * *

"Oh, wait, wait, one more thing."

She turned impatiently from the door. "What?"

"Can you pretend I seduced you, and you're coming back to the ship because you're madly in love with me? Oh, and you have to act like you really think we're going to chop off your fingers, you know, be all like, 'How could you Francis?', and cry and everything?"

She strolled out, slamming the door behind her without a word.

* * *

"Ppppppftt—what the fucking hell assholes? Go fuck your whore mothers you bast—arrrggghh!" He cut off as Roderich threw another bucketful of cold water over his head.

"Good morning _amorcito_!" Antonio chimed in brightly. "You look hungry! Hera, breakfast please!" The cook stepped into the cell with a bowl of hot porridge, placing it at the captive's feet. The young man regarded it disdainfully before promptly kicking the bowl with all the force he could muster in his weakened state, sending it skittering to the captain's feet, sloshing watery porridge over his boots.

"I don't dine with _pirates_." He spit out venomously.

Antonio darkened, nodding at Roderich, before approaching the young man, who, with each step, shrank back against the side of the cell. He crouched at his captive's side, cornering him, and countered belatedly with a predatory grin, "Neither does Emma."

"Emma? Who's Emma?"

As if on cue, the door to the trap door leading to the main deck collapsed open, and Francis entered, shoving a girl down into the dimly lit hold, gagged and bound by her wrists with a rope that had left red burn marks on her pale arms. Antonio rose, beaming.

"Ah, look Roma, the lovely Emma has arrived!"

"Mmmph!"

Romano looked on in shock and horror as Francis shoved the woman against the bars of the cell and ripped her gag off roughly. She gasped, tears rolling from her reddened eyes down her cheeks and begged raggedly over her shoulder.

"Please! Please, Francis! Let me go! I won't tell the authorities!"

Romano lunged at Antonio, chains jangling violently as he pulled uselessly against them. "Let her go, bastard! You can't do this!"

Antonio ignored him, addressing Emma jovially, hands clasped behind his back as he strode towards her shaking form. "Ah, Emma, you've met the other guest of honor, Roma!" She nodded her head reluctantly, eyes wide with fear. "You must be hungry…"

She nodded again, and Lovino had a sinking suspicion as to where this was all going as Herakles stepped forward with a knife. " _Tomate_ , you must be hungry as well…"

Romano shook his head slowly and swallowed hard, trembling slightly. Antonio tsked as he took the knife from Herakles and freed Emma's wrists, examining her shaking right hand. "That's very rude, _amorcito_ …look, Emma is very disappointed…"

"Please! Please! God, just do what he says!" she pleaded.

Romano nodded up at her, eyes wide with fear but determined. "Anything I have to do, I'll do it." Antonio smiled, releasing Emma's hand and sauntering towards Romano, coming to a halt a foot away from Romano's kneeling figure. "It's a banquet, isn't it? All you have to do is eat."

"I'll do it." Romano repeated, jaw clenched, as he looked around Antonio at Emma, on the other side of the bars with a numb look. When the silence continued into minutes, Romano broke, making eye contact with his captor and hissing, "What? What am I eating?"

Antonio fixed him with a stony gaze. "Your porridge, Roma."

"I—" Romano's voice caught in his throat as Antonio loomed over him, blocking out the light from the lantern and occupying his field of vision. Antonio's eyes flicked down to his boots and Romano understood. Wordlessly, he bent his head and licked the remains of the porridge off of the worn, dark brown leather, grimacing at the taste.

"That's enough." Romano lifted his head at the words, brow furrowed in silent fury. At some unspoken command, everyone but Roderich and Antonio silently left the hold, save for Emma's quiet snuffles.

Antonio crouched down and cocked his head as he grasped Romano's chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up with a critical gaze. "He still has bruises from when you tried to force-feed him, and he's covered in filth. Hmmm…and he's bound to have raw skin from the irons." Antonio released Romano's chin and stood, finished examining his prisoner. As he ambled up to the steps, he threw over his shoulder, "Clean him up and bring him to my quarters. I'll be expecting him in no more than an hour."

Romano watched, silently fuming, as the trap door swung shut behind him.

* * *

"You look good."

"I hate you."

"You look good when you hate me." Antonio grinned lazily and spread his arms at the feast on the table. "But that doesn't really matter. Sit. Eat. You're starving."

Romano didn't move, crossing his arms and glaring across the room, grinding his molars.

"Alright then," Antonio's gaze grew steely and he suddenly seemed coiled to attack, even draped lethargically over his chair as he was, boots propped up on the edge of the table. His voice was harsh.

"Romano. Sit."

Romano pulled out a chair and sat.

"Eat."

Romano growled low in his throat as he viciously ripped a drumstick off of the roast chicken in front of him and angrily sank his teeth into it. Antonio chuckled. "So you _can_ eat. Though, there's no need to be so…" He shrugged as he sipped his wine and Romano slammed his own goblet onto the table. "Petulant. All you have to do is behave until your grandfather pays the ransom. There's no need to torture yourself."

"I'd rather die than be a disgusting leech on my family, like you're a leech on society."

"Really? I'd always fancied myself more of a wolf…picking off straying lambs from the fold…" He eyed Romano as the captive noble reached for an apple, inhaling it, and fiddled absently with the golden cross around his neck.

Romano came up for air, leaning his forearms on the table, bandages startlingly white against his olive skin, and staring at his plate. "This is disgusting."

"How so?"

Romano ignored him. "I am disgusting."

"You were before we cleaned you up."

Romano stood suddenly, knocking over his chair, and snarled, "You are disgusting! You are going to hell! How can you wear that cross as if you truly had the fear of the Lord?" Antonio hummed thoughtfully before answering.

"You're right. I have no fear of the lord." He didn't smile so much as bare his teeth. "I have much love for him, but no fear."

"How—"

Antonio cut him off. "Why should I fear god? Does he not love all his children?" He mused, "Maybe he loves me enough not to punish me, more than he loves the less fortunate in this world?"

"You WILL be punished! It is in the hands of the Lord, and it may not be today, or tomorrow, but you will regret the day you turned your back on His name, and repent!"

Antonio smirked and leveled His gaze up at Romano, taking His boots down from the table and leaning over the table towards him. "And who will punish me? Saint John? Your grandfather? You, maybe? I have already provided you with the knife." He leaned back in His chair; arms spread wide, locking eyes with Romano. "Send me to my judgement."

Romano picked up the knife with trembling fingers and trudged shakily around the groaning table, towards Antonio, until he stood right beside his chair. Antonio stood and wrapped His hand around Romano's, stilling it. "Ay…you won't be able to get it in very far if your hand is so unsteady."

He pulled Romano closer and pressed their foreheads together, resting the tip of the knife over His own heart, and sighed contentedly.

"Perfect. Go on."

"You're insane." Romano whispered in shock as he squirmed in Antonio's iron grip.

"You're weak. Is that any better?"

Romano at last managed to jerk his hand away, stumbling back. Dark rage coiled in his stomach and he screamed out in frustration, "I'm not weak!" He lunged at Antonio, aiming for His abdomen, intent on ending his imprisonment aboard the _Chiara_. Unfortunately, Antonio was quick to disarm him, intercepting him at the wrist and twisting his arm across his body to slam his knife hand to the table, eliciting a cry of pain.

Instantly Antonio was at Romano's back, hissing against the side of his neck.

"Playing God now, are we?" He pressed himself into Romano's back and pushed Romano's hand harder against the wood, knuckles turning white. "You should know your place!" He tore Romano away from the table, hand traveling up to his wrist and squeezing, forcing Romano to drop the knife. He dragged Romano over to the bed and threw him against it, breathing hard and almost snorting like a bull as He towered over him. Romano scowled up at Him, though his voice shook.

"You're a goddamn sodomite too? Christ, you're worse than I thought."

Snickering at that, He seemed to calm a little. "You thought I was going to fuck you?"

Romano reddened. "What the hell was I supposed to think?"

Antonio's head fell back and he raked his hands through his hair, laughing. "I was thinking about it too, but I won't. Stay here, alright? I'll be back by nightfall, probably." He strode over to the door, unlocking it with a heavy clunk. He paused before he crossed the threshold, looking over his shoulder at the hunched figure of Romano.

"Are you disappointed?"

Even after he locked the thick wooden door securely behind him and strolled cheerfully across the main deck, he could faintly hear the screamed expletives and curses. Antonio smiled at the memory as he and his first mate and quartermaster drank to their success, joined by an exasperated tavern owner.

* * *

Yeesh, Roma. Let's say he went for...perhaps ten days without eating enough? It would be preeeeetty anticlimactic if he died of heart failure before we've even made decent headway into the story.


	2. Lunch Aboard The Portsmouth Rose

Hey guys, I finished up chapter two! This one has significantly less humor and/or UST, but I figure more of that will be in later chapters.

* * *

"I see…" Arthur shifted minutely in the oak chair with fine silk upholstery, across the heavy study desk from the tired old man. "I'm afraid, though, that I am not the man to retrieve your grandson."

There was a long pause in which the old man removed his pipe from his mouth, exhaling smoke into the space between them. Finally, he spoke flatly in heavily accented English. "It is good to know that the Royal Navy still turns out spineless bitches. And here they tell us, that the only things guaranteed in life are death and taxes. It appears you can always count on the English to be cowards as well." He returned the pipe to his wizened lips.

"Well, you see sir," Arthur silently counted to ten and clenched and unclenched his fists behind the desk, reminding himself that he was not Alastair, and that he must not behave like him. "I can no longer speak for His Majesty's Navy. However, I can certainly reassure you I am in full possession of a spine, as well as a sound capacity for judgement." He stood, placing his tricorn firmly upon his head and continued sharply, "It is for this reason that I will not retrieve your grandson. Good day to you, sir."

The old man grimaced, placing his pipe in its brass, eagle-shaped holder. His gravelly voice cut through the dusty silence of the study. "Do you have children, Captain Kirkland?"

He paused at the door, steeling himself for the sermon. "I am fully aware of what you're trying to do. And no, I don't have children, so it won't—"

Felix ignored him and continued on solemnly. "He is only seventeen. Only an innocent child…" He shook his head mournfully, and Arthur turned back towards him with a capitulatory sigh. Felix's rough, low tones belied the plea in his rheumy eyes, furrowed in wrinkles, as he spoke.

"You should know very well what immoral men such as Carriedo will do. How can you sail under the name of your king, while you lack the moral fortitude to protect the innocent?"

"Your grandson is not a subject of the crown."

"And you are either the priest or the Levite! Which? I would say that you are the priest, because you dare to put up the façade of morality, but you care little for mercy!" He spat out the last word as he lapsed into a fit of dry coughing, clutching the arms of his chair. Arthur clenched his jaw and observed the frail figure behind the desk. Finally, when the coughing seemed to be turning towards retching and the goddamn guilt-tripping geezer's face was turning an unhealthily dark shade of red, Arthur shuffled hastily to the pitcher of clear water on the desk and shoved a glass under Felix's nose, austere black hat tumbling off his head in the process.

"By God! Drink, man!"

Felix slurped the water clumsily out of the rim of the cup like a child, spilling some down the front of his shirt. Finally he gasped and hacked, pounding on his chest. "Huuuurrgh!"

"Are you quite alright?"

Felix coughed wetly before answering weakly. "Just fine…but…"

"…But?" Arthur mentally cursed himself as he mopped up the old man's front with his handkerchief, leaning in a rather undignified manner across the desk.

"If only there was someone to save my poor child… "

Arthur surrendered.

"Oh Christ, fine, I'll do it!"

The old man shakily brought the simple wooden cross that hung around his neck to his pale, thin lips, and kissed it. "Praise the Lord." Then Felix picked up his pipe and contentedly resumed smoking. He addressed Arthur jovially, the latter of which had seated himself once again in the chair opposite the desk, massaging his temples. "And now for the matter of payment. What sum do you require?"

"Well, normally I receive a percentage of the loot from the captured ship, but this is a slightly different case than what I usually handle, in which I am not under the employ of the crown. This is a very costly venture..." He groaned as he collapsed back into the chair, still rubbing his forehead. "I'd have to chase the Devil all the way across the Atlantic…and he's extremely dangerous. No one wants to suffer a run in with the _Chiara_ …"

Felix nodded, leaning forward across the desk.

"We also don't know exactly where he's gone, only that he's somewhere in the Caribbean…he's got a significant head start on me, so that's another factor that decreases the likelihood we find your grandson before Carriedo kills him, if the ransom is not paid…" Arthur hummed contemplatively, frowning at the ageing map spread over the desk. "When is the ransom due?"

"I have to have someone, with the ransom, in Port Royal in three months." Felix replied crisply.

Arthur softened. "Oh, Christ. When did you get the letter?"

"About a week ago…I don't know how long he's had Romano though, he must have sent it before he captured him."

"Is there anyone in Barbados that Romano might have contacted before he was seized? Someone with concrete information? A tutor, or a relative?"

Felix shook his head. "I don't think so, Romano was too prideful; he wanted to make it on his own."

Arthur rested his cheek against his palm, arm propped on the armrest, brow furrowed. "I will require full possession of the _Chiara_ and her contents, once Carriedo is disposed of and your grandson is returned to you. We recently captured a sea dog who scuttled his ship before we could even engage his crew, so I will also require your aid in funding the voyage, almost in full. That is the extent of my demands."

Felix reached over the desk and shook Arthur's hand earnestly.

* * *

"Arthur, I think we'd better return to port."

"What? We can't turn around! We are seventy miles from shore!"

"And so are two extra people."

"Two extra—? The lads." Arthur gripped his compass unnecessarily tightly and exhaled sharply through his nose.

His first mate nodded nonchalantly leaning against the railing. "They were hiding in a couple of extra barrels."

Arthur fumed, marching down the worn but well-washed stairs from the quarter deck, roaring, "How did we miss that?" Paulo pinched the bridge of his nose as he followed Arthur down into the hold.

* * *

"Alright yeh wee bastards! Yer old jakey's comin' down 'ere any minute, so on the count o' three—"

Arthur stuck his head into the hold as he wrested open the hatch. "Alastair! By God, watch your language!"

Alastair cocked his head at Arthur's rage as he stomped down the stairs into the dim hold. Paulo rubbed the back of his neck as he descended, boots falling much more softly than Arthur's. "I'm sorry Alley, but I had to tell Arthur, you know." Alastair responded cheekily, clapping a hand on Paulo's head and roughly mussing his hair.

"Aye, I know, yeh numpty bugger."

As Paulo readjusted his ponytail and Alastair curled on the floor, cradling his crotch, Arthur marched briskly into the hold and announced pointedly, "Alright lads, the fun's over, so come out from wherever you are."

Nothing moved.

Arthur threw a sideways glance at Paulo and Alastair. "Alright, I suppose our only choice is to leave them down here…it's a shame though…I do hope the rats don't chew on 'em _too_ much, poor lads." And all three men tramped up the stairs, snickering. Alastair closed the hatch, chortling under his breath.

* * *

"Holy shit, Mattie! The fuckin' rats are gonna eat us!" Alfred whispered frantically, grabbing Matthew's arm, tugging it back and forth.

"Well what the hell are we gonna do? They closed the hatch!" Matthew hissed, a note of fear audible.

Alfred took a deep breath. "I know! Okay, okay, I gotta think…"

'After a few minutes of such thinking, a shaft of bright light cut into the darkness of the hold.

"Fuck! Fuck, Mattie, go to the light! Go to the light!"

Matthew sneezed.

"I'm not leaving you behind Matt! Grab onto my hand!"

As the two brothers clambered desperately up the stairs, they were met with the sight of the captain, the first mate, and the master gunner laughing hysterically. They blinked in the harsh sunlight as Alastair and Paulo pulled them up onto the main deck. Alfred was furious.

"Dad! What the fuck?"

"Young man! You watch your language!"

Alfred snorted. "Mum would've let us."

"I know for a fact that she does not! And speaking of your mother, can you imagine how worried she must be right now? I cannot believe—"

"I can't believe you're being such an arse about this! How else am I supposed to learn to privateer!"

"This ship is no place for children!"

"I am not a child! I can fight, and drink, and go to brothels!"

"You went to a brothel?!"

Alfred scratched his head guiltily, face turning red as he shrunk back. "Only once or twice…we were curious is all! We didn't, you know… _do_ anything."

"I should hope not! As for the drinking and the fighting, I at least hope you've kept that to moderation!"

Matthew nodded quickly, nudging Alfred forcefully. At this point, Alastair chimed in, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "Aw, Artie, give the wee lad a break, s'got a face like a skelped erse."

Arthur ground his teeth and ran a calloused hand through his short, choppy hair. "Alright. C'mon lads, we need to have a serious talk."

* * *

"Normally, I would not be opposed to you learning a bit by sailing with me, however—" Arthur raised a hand to silence Alfred. "This is certainly not the job in which to do so. It's a very dangerous mission—"

"I know! You're going after the Devil Carriedo!"

"Well, yes, and there's a chance that I will be killed, so—"

"Dad, there's no way Carriedo can kill you; you're the better captain."

Arthur lowered his head, silent for a moment. "Matthew, do you understand the gravity of the situation?" Matthew contemplated the question. "I'm not completely sure. What is the chance that Carriedo will...kill you? Though his voice wavered at the last words, he was resolute.

Arthur nodded in approval, smoothing down a corner of his map and gazing out of the window in the captain's quarters at the open ocean. "I would say…approximately three in ten, if it comes down to close quarters combat. He is well known for his swordsmanship, though if he is the victor, he might choose not to kill me. If we face him in open water, he'd definitely have the advantage, sailing a frigate as opposed to a brigantine."

Alfred cut in stubbornly. "But you're a great swordsman too. You were in the Royal Navy!"

Matthew sighed.

Arthur picked up the thread. "Alfred, you might as well learn a bit before we return to Portsmouth. If you like, Alastair can teach you sailor's knots."

Alfred seemed to understand the implication of this suggestion, and left the cabin in a huff, arms crossed and pouting. Arthur groaned and raked his hands through his hair, slouching over the table. "Matthew, why did you come with Alfred? I thought you wanted to be a blacksmith…Elizabeth told me you've been taking a great interest in her work."

Matthew shrugged. "I couldn't let him go by himself, and I figured we'd get caught pretty quickly."

"Fair enough."

There was a long pause in which the dust swirled in the early afternoon light pouring through the large, spotless window and Arthur and Matthew sat in silence. Arthur chewed on his lip. "Say, lad, has she…?"

"Yeah, his name's O'Donohue."

Arthur snorted. "An Irishman, for Christ's sake. What's an Irishman even doing in Portsmouth?"

"A traveling writer. You know—" Matthew rubbed his forehead, hesitating. "If you would just come back, and stay in Portsmouth, we could all probably…"

Arthur shut him down with a placating gesture."Oh lad, you know I can't ask Elizabeth to just drop everything and take me back. I wish I could fix everything, but I'm afraid I've patched it up the best I can, at this point."

Matthew was silent.

"But you know lad, I—I'm very grateful to her, for being such a good mother…especially when I haven't been such a good father. And there's no ill will between us, just so you and Alfred know."

"I know."

"C'mon lad, don't be so inscrutable."

Matthew stood abruptly, anger suddenly shaking every word. "Fine! You know what I wanna know? I wanna know if you left mum because you were buggering someone you liked better than her! I know why you had to resign from the Royal Navy! Or was it because you didn't even care at all about me and Al?!"

Arthur was taken aback, shocked into silence by the uncharacteristic display of anger. Matthew stared down his father, overwhelmed by the rage that had boiled underneath his skin, finally erupting to the surface. He pounded his fist on the table, disrupting Arthur's inkpot and navigational tools. "Tell me!"

Arthur took a shaky breath and looked his son sternly in the eyes, answering carefully. "You are incorrect on several counts. I loved your mother very much, but when you and your brother were born, we were kids, and we had nothing. She didn't inherit the smithy until a few years after that, and we thought we were going to starve, so the best option seemed to join the Navy." He pursed his lips, reluctant, before continuing. "And no, I am not 'buggering someone I like better than her'."

Matthew sat back down quietly; mouth scrunched up and eyes red and puffy. "You barely even talk to us. Sure as hell seems like you don't give a fuck."

"Do you really believe that?"

Matthew exhaled forcefully. "No."

Arthur sighed in relief. "Well, at least there's that. Are you hungry? I nearly forgot, you and Alfred had been stowing away for nearly a full day. Doubtless Alfred's already gotten a five course dinner out of Sean—"

Matthew snickered.

"—so I reckon we'd better feed you too. Maybe afterwards we can test your swordsmanship, does that sound good to you?" Arthur ventured cautiously, rising and striding to the door. Matthew nodded.

"Okay. Let's go dad."

* * *

Yep, Matt and Al are Arthur's biological sons in this one, and to give you an age estimate, they're roughly 15/16. Also since there are several characters in this fic that Himaruya didn't name, here are my fanon names:

Alastair is Scotland, obviously.

Sean is Northern Ireland, doesn't have a major role though.

Paulo is Portugal.

O'Donohue (surname only) is Republic of Ireland, but also only briefly mentioned.

Elizabeth isn't anyone, just Matt & Al's mom. (I don't like OC's playing major roles.)

And Emma from the last chapter is Belgium.


	3. The Chiara takes the Esperanza

Hey, so if you have any questions of course feel free to comment! Speaking of, in the comments last chapter I answered a few questions that you might want to look at if you want extra details regarding backstory, ages, etc. to clear up any confusion in the fic.

With that said, I apologize beforehand for the dialogue in this one, it is loooooong, and I am just dreadfully sorry. I hope you guys like the chapter!

* * *

Francis rubbed Romano's back in wide, gentle circles. "Breathe, _mon petit chou_ , just—"

Romano dry heaved once again, clutching the railing.

Antonio strolled by, leaning around Francis to peer at Romano. "Hmmm…maybe I should not have let you eat so much?" He grinned enigmatically, fiddling with the small golden ring in his left earlobe. "Well, now you have learned your lesson. I suppose you never knew what hunger was before, did you?

Romano ignored him persistently, more focused on the rebellion of his stomach.

Antonio mused on, leaning with his back to the ocean, elbows propped on the railing smooth from years of use. "Never known what it was like to go to bed hungry, because your whore mother was dead and your shit father had abandoned you…never seen the filth of the streets, full of beggars and whores and littered with orphans just like you, all fighting with every breath for a pitiful coin tossed to the dirt." He tilted his head and leaned farther back to catch in the corner of Romano's vision. "Never been left behind by the world…"

Romano was breathing raggedly, staring at the oscillating waves below with an unreadable expression.

Francis winced and gave Antonio a long suffering look. "He is playing you for a fool. His father was a fisherman, he has a brother who is in far a more respectable profession, and his childhood was just fine. The only reason he became a pirate is because he wanted to get rich quick."

Antonio chuckled and twirled a lock of Romano's dark chestnut hair around his index finger. "Well, I was but a fool. Here I am, still trying to get rich."

Romano jerked away from Antonio's hand and growled weakly from over the side of the ship, "Well, fuck you, stupid." before loudly retching again. Antonio slunk back and retorted with a smirk. "Aw…Roma, don't say that. You might give me ideas." To this, Romano groaned and resumed dry heaving.

Francis resumed comforting Romano with a sigh of exasperation as Antonio strode away jauntily, whistling a cheerful tune.

* * *

Romano woke with a start to an incessant pounding on the door of the captain's quarters, intensifying his headache. He groaned and tried to cover his ears with a pillow, curling in on himself to combat the nausea, to no avail. Finally the door slammed open and the midday light flooded in, blinding him. Romano growled in discomfort. "Gah! For God's sake, close the door!"

Gilbert snickered. "Pretty boy needs his beauty sleep?"

Romano let out a strained hiss and pulled the blanket over his head. Gilbert smirked. "I don't think so!" And he ripped he blanket off, rolling Romano onto the floor with a heavy thunk. "Ugh…"

"Wake up, sleeping stupid! You gotta learn how to stab people!"

"Urgh, bastard! Why today?" Romano moaned in pain as he clutched his stomach with one arm and his head with the other. Gilbert sighed and unceremoniously threw Romano over his shoulder and marched out onto the main deck. Gilbert scoffed and bobbled his head from side to side pretentiously, executing a surprisingly good imitation of Antonio's thick Spanish accent. "Because my _puta_ can't handle a knife, and we must be good neighbors, so as to prevent being damned to Hell."

At this Romano's spine went rigid, and he spoke slowly, as if to a child. "You're already going to Hell. You are pirates."

Gilbert, ever oblivious, carried on loudly. "That's exactly what I told him! I'm glad someone's seeing sense other than me!" He shrugged, suddenly allowing Romano to slide off of his shoulder and onto the deck with a crash. "You fucking bastard!" Romano scrambled to his feet, cradling his jaw. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

Gilbert replied dryly as he tossed Romano a stiletto. "That's kind of the point." Romano fumbled for it before catching it without incident, and silently thanking God that he had, for Gilbert was suddenly lunging at him with a knife.

With a shriek, he dove out of the way, crashing into the side of the quarterdeck. He tried to stand, only for Gilbert to drag him to his feet and toss him against the wall again, kicking the stiletto out of his hand. Gilbert tsked. "Alright, so we've established you've never held a knife before in your life. Anything else you wanna tell me?" Romano scowled up at the albino, "I did learn to duel, I'm not completely—"

Gilbert cut him off. "Really? Figures, coming from money."

Romano glowered.

Gilbert huffed. "Alright then, let's see how you do with a sword." He offered a hand to Romano, who took it reluctantly. Gilbert heaved him to his feet and remarked bluntly, "Wow, you're a lightweight. How did you think you were going to survive out here?"

"I didn't! I was kidnapped!" Romano snapped, rolling up his sleeves.

Gilbert shook his head as they headed below deck. "No, I mean, why did you think you could make it in Porto Bello? Did you even know what the West Indies were like? Did you think it would be so easy to survive on your own?"

Romano resisted the urge to shove him down the stairs and retorted forcefully. "Why did you think you could make it as a pirate?"

Gilbert grinned. "I didn't. I was kidnapped."

Romano balked, and Gilbert had to tug on his thin, wiry arm to get him moving again as they descended lower below deck. "Well, not exactly, I just said that for effect. I was on my first voyage, on a merchant ship, looking to work in America. And, well, obviously you can guess what must've happened."

Romano grimaced. "How can you sail under his flag?!"

"How can you eat off his table?"

Romano hung his head and didn't speak, and Gilbert pulled him along again. "Sorry, I'm not trying to be a dick. Anyway, here we are. Find one you like, I guess." Romano entered the gunroom wordlessly. Gilbert began to speak again, but suddenly, the pounding of dozens of footsteps drowned out his voice and rained dust down from the floorboards above. Romano coughed, hiding his face in his sleeve.

"What the fuck is going on?" He yelled.

"They'll have spotted a ship!" Gilbert yelled back. "We're going to follow it and see if we can take it! C'mon!" He grabbed Romano's hand and yanked him away from the weapons. Romano protested, but his voice was lost in the scuffle. He pulled back, surprised, when he realized Gilbert was leading him to the captain's quarters.

He hollered over the din, "Why are you bringing me here?"

Gilbert guffawed. "We're not going to let you run around on deck and get in everyone's way! Besides, if it turns out to be the Italian Navy, we don't want them to see you!"

" _I_ want them to see me!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes and shouted out in reply as he shoved Romano into the cabin. "Well that's where we have a difference of interest, isn't it?" He slammed the heavy wooden door in Romano's face, and Romano screamed silently in frustration at the unresponsive door as he heard the heavy thunk of the lock.

* * *

Romano sat quietly by the window of the great cabin, staring out at the ocean and listening to the crew work above him and the water crash against the hull below. Romano sat quietly by the window of the great cabin, staring out at the ocean and listening to the crew work above him and the water crash against the hull below for roughly five hours, after which the sounds of cannon fire and gunshots rang through the ship. Then Romano listened to those for approximately two hours. His stomach growled quietly, and he rose suddenly, as if a bolt of electricity had hit him. He walked briskly to the large, wooden table in the center of the cabin that boasted Antonio's ostentatious, full color map, neatly penned with bold black and gold lettering. On the edge of the table bolted firmly to the floor, a clay bowl of fruit balanced precariously, hosting several peaches, a bunch of bananas, and a solitary black fly. Romano shooed the fly away and poked at a banana lightly spotted with brown before selecting a slightly bruised peach. Then he ate it. Then he tossed the pit in the cast iron chamber pot under the bed, humming to himself. Then he yawned and tripped sleepily to Antonio's bed, clasping his hands behind his back and stretching languidly. Then he plopped down onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling blankly.

For a second, he considered halfheartedly masturbating to pass the time.

A particularly loud combatant screamed as he (presumably) died in some horrific, violent manner, and Romano shook his head, quickly deciding against it. He sighed as he grasped at covers that weren't there, and rolled out of bed to trudge across the rough floorboards. Having retrieved the thick red blanket and thin cotton sheet, Romano collapsed back onto the bed and burrowed underneath them, despite the heat of the late afternoon.

* * *

Antonio raised his pistol in one hand and a torch in the other, roaring over the din as he stood victoriously over the corpse of the young enemy captain. It was clothed in an old, rumpled linen shirt under a new silk waistcoat, its own bright blood soaking the two garments as it lay with Antonio's bullet embedded in its broad chest, dark, chocolate colored eyes still clear, and short, curly black hair spilled across the rough wooden planks.

"All tobacco and foodstuffs to the hold! Should you uncover any fine cloth, spices, or other precious cargo, you know to keep to the articles! We cut lashes in one and one half hour!"

A deafening cheer erupted in assent, and Antonio stepped over the body and down from the quarterdeck in satisfaction, holstering his pistol as he strode off to hear the accounts from his right hand men.

* * *

Antonio shrugged off his overcoat and stooped to grasp the corner of the heavy red blanket that was hanging off of the bed, half on the floor. Rubbing his eyes, he tossed the runaway blanket over the foot of the bed as he gracelessly kicked off his boots to join his hat and coat, abandoned on the floorboards. Romano stirred as Antonio disentangled the sheets from his ankles and climbed into bed beside him, yawning. Antonio exhaled, and Romano shifted away from Antonio to face the wall, shoulders tensing. For a moment they lay quietly, but Antonio broke the thick silence.

"I hope you didn't find the battle too dull, _amorcito_. Did you find some way to amuse yourself?"

Romano ignored the question and retorted warily, though sleep still clung to his words. "You sound horrible. Did you manage to swallow a few stray bullets during the fighting?"

Antonio chucked huskily. "You couldn't be faulted for thinking so. I always sound like this after battles, on account of all the yelling I have to do. I suppose I've just become accustomed to it." Romano sat up at the foot of the bed, back to Antonio and cross-legged, resting his face in his palms.

"Is it easy to become accustomed to?"

"Yes. I hardly notice it anymore."

"How long have you been a pirate?"

Antonio laced his fingers behind his head and licked his lips, brow furrowed. "A little under twenty years now? Thereabouts." Antonio shrugged. "I was probably a bit too young when I started. I was a cabin boy, though, so it's not as if I was running men through on a regular basis." Romano shook his head slightly, expression hidden.

"Why couldn't you have just been a fisherman?"

Antonio stared wearily up at the ceiling. "I'm not sure, Roma."

"I thought it was because you wanted to get rich."

"Well, that partly. But also…I think I wanted to make a name for myself. Have grand adventures. I think everyone wants to do that when they're young. Didn't you want to do that when you struck out on your own?"

"No."

Antonio sat part of the way up, supporting his weight on his forearms. "Really? I don't believe you." Romano toed at the bed covers and shrunk further away. "How many innocent men did you kill today?" He dodged hollowly.

Antonio sank back down into his pillow, head hung back. "Ah, _mi cielo_ …I think this is something you do not want to hear…" Romano remained still, sharp shoulder blades forming a valley in the crisp white linen that hung between them. Antonio groaned. "But if you are insistent, I will tell you."

He paused, collecting his thoughts. "I did not kill too many men today, even though I don't take prisoners, because the merchant ship we took today was not heavily crewed. The first man I killed today was a gunner who came at me with a dagger. You can tell he is a gunner because he has gunpowder on his hands and shirt, you see? And so he came at me with a dagger, and I cut him down. The next man I killed, I ran him through with my saber as he was running away from a member of my crew. He was young, and very scared, so I think this was his first voyage. And the last man I killed today was their captain."

"Was it quick?"

"The battle, or when I killed their captain?"

"Both."

"Yes on both counts. He was not a very good captain, because he didn't choose to flee or to surrender, even though it should have been clear that he was outgunned and outmatched. Because of that incompetence, he and all his men are dead, and his ship is sinking to the bottom of the ocean."

"Do you think it was his first voyage too?"

"Perhaps. He was very young."

"As young as me?"

"No, a bit older. In his early-twenties, I'd say."

"Do you think he had a wife and children who are waiting for him to come home?"

"I don't know."

Romano uncovered his face and lifted his head to stare out of the large, paneled windows at the dark waves below. "What did he look like? What was he wearing? How did you kill him?"

Antonio hummed, voice still slightly gravelly. "I don't quite remember what he looked like or what he was wearing, but when I shot him, he was dueling Gilbert on the quarterdeck." He paused, frowning up the ceiling in thought. "I believe he was holding his own, if somewhat clumsily. His footwork needed improvement, and his reaction time could've been better, but he made up for it with his strength."

Romano turned to face Antonio, expression neutral.

"How do think you'll die?"

Antonio sat up to meet Romano's questioning gaze. "I don't know. What do you think?" Romano scowled uncertainly. "I think you made a mistake by turning to piracy. I think it's too late for you to repent, and that you'll be brought to justice."

Antonio closed his eyes in acknowledgement, nodding. "I've had a few close calls before, and there are an enormous number of men who want me dead by now, no doubt. My own king, even. I think, yes, that I will meet my end at the end of a rope, or on the blade of a cutlass…maybe even with a bullet in my heart, although that would be somewhat anticlimactic."

Romano blinked lethargically, and Antonio pulled his thin frame to his chest and collapsed onto the pillows, ignoring the tensing of muscles and nearly inaudible sharp intake of breath. Antonio sighed, stroking Romano's hair and admiring its shine where the moonlight slanted across it.

"Relax, I just want to sleep. Go to sleep, Roma…"

Romano pretended to, trying to keep his breathing regular and slow as Antonio slept like an angel, cheek resting on the crown of Romano's head and murmuring incomprehensible nothings as he slumbered soundly.

* * *

Okay, so yeah, chapter three, what did you guys think? Also I have had it up to here with the research, but it drives me up the wall when I don't know how stuff should be in a different time period!

This chapter I wanted to show a little more interaction between the other members of the BTT, but I ended up spending a ridiculous amount of time with Toño and Roma again. Did you guys think it was too heavy in that respect? Thanks for your feedback!


	4. The Portsmouth Rose is faster

Hey, just a quick notice: _Chiara and the Rose_ is moving to Archive of Our Own, because the rating is going up next chapter and I'd rather not cut out parts of the story. I'm under the same name, LegionnaireLovi.

Thanks for reading, hope to see you there!

* * *

Arthur laughed lightheartedly as Matthew reached far and jabbed weakly, parrying the jab easily as he sidestepped Alfred's aggressive thrust, blade singing. Re-aligning himself swiftly, he countered Alfred's attempt to continue his momentum, parrying quickly and close to his body as the younger man advanced with determination and drove him slowly to the railing. Suddenly, Arthur interrupted a parry to tilt his cavalry saber almost vertical and twist the blade down with a practiced force.

Alfred flinched in surprise as his rapier flew from his hands and clattered uselessly onto the deck, kicked out of reach by Arthur as he blocked Matthew's calculated slash and returned the attack lightly, unable to keep a carefree grin off his face. When Matthew's broadsword fell to the deck as well, Arthur laughed breathlessly, removing his hat to run a hand through his messy hair.

"You've both been practicing!"

Alfred groaned as he retrieved his rapier. "I'm hungry…"

Matthew shrugged, sheathing his own weapon. "Didn't we just eat?"

"Yeah, but I—"

A cry came from the crow's nest. "PIRATES! PIRATES SIGHTED!"

"Oh, fuck!"

"Alfred!"

The deck was a flurry of motion as the crew rushed to their positions, awaiting orders. The sailing master shouted above the noise, cupping his hands around his mouth as Arthur marched briskly up to the quarter deck and accepted a spyglass from Paulo.

Arthur stood beside his first mate and sailing master, arms crossed, assessing the situation. A sharp look send Alfred and Matthew scurrying out of the way of a couple of rushing crew members, and into the path of another. Alfred squeaked as the towering, swarthy carpenter grabbed onto an arm each, roughly collecting both the twins and marching them to the captain's quarters.

As the carpenter shut the door securely behind them, he turned to the twins and grinned toothily. "Aw...ya poor little ankle biters, you're scared shitless! Don't worry, they're not even close enough to fire warning shots! Probably didn't even think we'd spot 'em so quick."

Alfred cleared his throat and stuck out his hand, voice gruff and formal and an octave lower than usual. "Alfred. Pleased to make your acquaintance." The carpenter clapped their hands together and shook vigorously. "Jett! So nice to finally meet Arthur's boys! Y'look just like cute little mini-Arthurs!"

Alfred squawked indignantly. "We're the same height as him!"

Matthew chimed in helpfully. "Last I checked, we were a quarter of an inch taller."

Jett waved his large, tanned hands in front of him in apology. "Sorry, my mistake." He drew a pouch from the pocket of his rough, canvas pants and produced a couple cookies, crumbling slightly at the edges, and holding them out as if they were olive branches. "Bikkie?"

Matthew sighed and accepted a cookie, tugging on the glowering Alfred's sleeve to do the same.

* * *

Dylan glanced out of the window of the captain's cabin at the distant ship in pursuit. "Jackdaw…if they catch us it'll be a hell of a fight."

"There won't be any fighting. We can escape under cover of darkness. The sun has almost set, we've put some good distance between us, and the wind is strong."

His sailing master nodded in concentration, pressing his knuckles to his lips. "Though if they do make it in range…?"

"Give 'em hell. Under no circumstances do they board the Rose. We absolutely cannot allow that to happen, no matter how difficult the battle." Arthur smoothed his lapels, hand hovering half a second too long over the left side, a little under the shoulder, before he straightened his hat and cleared his throat. "However, I have the utmost faith in your ability to out-sail the bastards, so I've no worries. You got any?"

"None. How are the lads?"

"Fine, Jett's teaching them to climb the rigging."

"And Beth?"

"She's fine. She's, uh, she's found a new bloke. A writer."

Dylan hummed sympathetically, patting Arthur on the back. He responded gently. "Good for her."

Arthur cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, yes of course! I just—I'm glad someone's there for the boys, along with Beth." He finished awkwardly, voice cracking almost imperceptibly as Dylan pulled him into a bear hug.

"Aw, Artie, I'm sorry me an' Alley weren't there…"

Arthur sniffed, shaking his head. "It's okay. Everything turned out pretty well, all things considered. Besides, Alley—" he hiccoughed. "Alley probably would've been a terrible influence," Dylan nodded in agreement as Arthur continued. "and you both had your own problems."

Suddenly the door burst open, Alastair charging in and piling onto the hug. "I heard my name!"

Arthur, somewhat muffled, sighed and noted dryly, as Alastair ground into his scalp with his knuckles, "So you were listening outside the door? Oof!" The group hug sagged and fell to the floor under the added weight of a fourth person.

Dylan smiled bemusedly. "Sean?"

Arthur's voice came muffled from under the pile. "Cheers Sean."

"Sean! Glad ya joined the party, yeh fat feckin' bampot!"

The youngest man hollered into the pile. "I'm not fat! Yer a feckin' booze-guzzlin' eejit!"

"Coulda fooled me, bangin' aboot the kitchen all feckin' day, yeh feckin' Jessie!"

"Yer for it now!"

The four-brother-pile up on the floor of the captain's cabin quickly escalated into a fistfight, out of which crawled Dylan and Arthur, who snuck off to their respective positions to ensure the _Portsmouth Rose_ wasn't captured by pirates.

* * *

"I'd rather not risk it."

Arthur shook his head slowly, jaw clenched and overcoat pulled tightly against the chill. "I agree. We'd be facing the wind, and if we did run into them again, we couldn't outrun them like before. However, I can't bring the lads to the Caribbean."

"Why not?" Paulo traced a route with his index finger, map easily visible in the full moonlight. "This is arduous and we risk more encounters with pirates. We're already roughly here—" He gestured to a general point far off of the coast. "Why not bring the boys with us? We could leave someone to keep them safe in Nassau while we're retrieving the hostage. We'll leave them and their caretaker enough money to live, and to buy passage back across the Atlantic should Carriedo defeat us."

Arthur scratched the stubble on his cheek, groaning. "Beth is gonna kill me, but yes, this works."

"Send her a letter as soon as we make port."

"Yes, yes, the very second."

Paulo grinned softly. "May as well send it now, stick it in a bottle and chuck it overboard."

Arthur smiled tiredly, sparing Paulo a fond look. "May as well."

Paulo swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, the distance between them small as they bent over the makeshift table examining the map, shadows long and deep in the bright moonlight. Arthur was motionless, only bottle green eyes flicking up from the map to rest on the shadow and light that played over Paulo's face. Paulo tilted his head, closing the distance between them by a hair's breadth, questioning cautiously.

"May as well?"

Arthur broke the spell, shaking his head and straightening.

Paulo nodded in assent and avoided Arthur's eyes. He stepped away and hunched over the rail, fingers knitted together, staring out over the waves pensively, muscular form outlined sharply in black shadow and inked in patches with bright, pale light. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked in a time like this."

Arthur smiled wryly, rolling up the map. "I don't blame you. I would've too, had our places been reversed."

Paulo chuckled gently, embarrassed. "Thanks."

"You should know, I do find you devastatingly attractive."

"Do you now?"

"Nothing less than a modern Adonis."

"You charming devil."

Arthur snorted and tucked the map into his coat, doffing his hat. "Goodnight, Adonis. Fare thee well."

Paulo offered a half-smile at the archaic speech. "And thyself, Jason."

"Jason?" Arthur looked back up at him from the bottom of the warped wooden stairs, expression hidden in shadow. "If that be the case, may we seek the Golden Fleece not in vain."

* * *

Arthur trudged into the captain's quarters, kicking off his boots and tossing his hat onto the table as he closed the door. He draped his overcoat over the shoulders of a chair and slouched off gratefully to bed without changing into a nightgown.

Unfortunately, as he collapsed into bed, he found it to be much lumpier than usual. He stumbled away, groaning and rubbing the back of his head where a goose egg was sure to form.

"Ow! What the fuck Mattie?" came the sleepy whisper-shout.

"Wasn't me!" came the dragon-like hiss back.

"Then what was it?!"

"I don't know! All I know is I was sleeping here, just minding my own business and you kick me in the knee and blame me for it, eh?"

"That wasn't me either!"

"I don't care what it was! Just go back to sleep, Al!"

At this point, Arthur had seated himself on the chest at the foot of the bed, rubbing his eyes and waiting to be noticed. For a minute, there was silence, disturbed only by the rustling of sheets and a clearing of the throat from one of the boys. Suddenly, one figure sat bolt upright.

"Oh shit, Matt, what if it's pirates?"

The response was strained and sleepy. "Then at least we can have our throats slit while we're still sleeping comfortably."  
A brief silence fell again in the room.

"Oh hey Dad, what're you doing here?"

Arthur sighed. "Not sleeping, I can tell you that."

"Dad?"

"Matthew."

"Hey—"

"Alfie?"

"—Dad—?"

"Alfred."

"No, Matthew—"

"One at a time!"

Arthur shook his head at the two figures, both with a hand raised to speak.

"No, me first."

Both hands lowered in disappointment, and Arthur harrumphed.

"We've decided that we have no choice but to bring you along for the remainder of the voyage. But—!" He paused to quiet Alfred and to allow the news to sink in. "You will _not_ participate in any battle. Under any circumstances. Is that understood?" Both heads bobbled in the darkness, and Arthur continued.

"Until we make port in Nassau, you will learn to sail and handle weapons, and various other necessary skills. You will live and work like one of the crew."

Arthur heard an excited sucking in of breath from Alfred and grinned vengefully. "And that starts with sleeping arrangements! Crew sleeps in hammocks below deck, so—" He gleefully yanked the blanket off the boys and shoved them towards the edge of the bed, "Go find yourselves a new bed!"

Alfred scrambled out of bed, protesting. "But it's the middle of the night!" Matthew seemed to agree in the way he rolled back toward the wall, curling up in the absence of a blanket. Arthur sighed and grabbed his ankles, tugging with increasing force as he addressed the indignant Alfred with a thin smile. "Well, to a sailor, midnight—" He grunted. "Can you help me out here? Thank you. Midnight—! Is just another great time to watch out for pirates! Now come on—!" With Alfred's help, he finally managed to pry Matthew's vice grip off of the edge of the bed. "—lad! Off with you!"

The twins slumped out of the captain's cabin grumbling, Alfred shrugging on his jacket and Matthew hopping along spitefully, pulling on his left boot.

"Don't worry, a couple of hammocks will open up in a few hours!"

As the heavy wooden door slammed unnecessarily hard behind them, Arthur settled contentedly into bed.

* * *

A lot of the time, merchant ships would obviously try to outrun pirate ships. Normally Arthur would be gunning for the bastards, but his priorities are a little different this time :P

Also, all four countries in the UK are brothers in this fic, Dylan being Wales. Also Jett is Australia, if it wasn't immediately apparent.

So tell me guys, do you like the chapters on alternating ships? Which crew do you like better?


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